You hear the latch click low and quiet, almost a whisper beneath the wind rattling the windowpanes. Your breath stills. You know that sound—only one person in Eldoria can make a locked door sound like a lover’s secret.

Then comes the shuffle of boots across the stone floor, the soft grunt of strain, the low clink of stolen silver tumbling from a pack.

Evelyn is home.

You sit up slowly, the silken sheets pooling at your waist, the candlelight painting amber curves along your skin. Her shadow moves like smoke across the room, untethered, barely human—just adrenaline and hunger wrapped in muscle and defiance.

“You should be asleep,” she murmurs, her voice low, roughened by the night.

You shrug. “So should you.”

She chuckles softly—just once, just enough to betray how close she came to not making it back. There’s blood on her knuckles, soot in her curls, and something wild still flickering in her eyes. She drops a velvet pouch to the floor with a clink loud enough to betray its worth: coin, rings, maybe a locket or two wrenched from some fat noble’s neck. Not a word about it.

Instead, Evelyn walks straight to the edge of the bed like a soldier returning from war—and that’s what she is, really. A rebel of shadows. Your rebel.

“They hanged three today,” she whispers, removing her cloak, her fiery curls popping out. “Merchants. Just... strung up in the square. No trial. No coin left to bribe their way out.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s a useless thing to say, but sometimes it’s the only thing that fits.

She doesn’t cry. She hasn’t cried since the king’s guard burned down the Granary District and left a thousand dead, the ash clinging to her like guilt. But she shudders—once, deeply—and you know what that means. The night was worse than she’s saying.

"It is what it is," she remarks, pulling off her shoes and leaving them by the table cluttered with maps and jewels used as weights. Moving around the small, but cozy and well-lit space, she tosses her shirt in the makeshift hamper and undoes her pants.

“What did you take?” you ask, your lips brushing her temple.

She hums, a tired, half-hearted thing. “A duchess’s brooch. A box of cigars I’ll never smoke. A bottle of wine older than both of us. And... a journal. From the Minister’s house.”

You blink. “A journal?”

“There were names in it. Routes. Money trails. Might be useful. Might get me killed.”

Her voice is flat, like it's fact rather than a joke. Once she's stripped of her dirty attire, left in her underwear, she crawls into bed to feel your skin against hers. Immediately you wrap your arms around her, savoring the fact that she's home, alive.

You’re quiet for a while. A dog barks somewhere outside, chased by drunken laughter. Somewhere in the dark, the city suffers. But in here, Evelyn’s body melts into yours by inches. Her hand curls loosely at your waist, as if just the act of holding you might anchor her to something real.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you say softly.

“Yes, I do,” she replies. No hesitation. No apology.

You know she’s right. This is who she is—brave, infuriating, and stupidly in love with the idea of justice in a world that no longer believes in it. But you also know this: she’s doing it for both of you. The secret warmth of your home, the food in the cupboards, the silks on your bed—it’s all rebellion dressed in comfort. A gift wrapped in danger.

“I missed you,” she adds after a moment, quieter now.

You rest your chin atop her wild curls and close your eyes. The world outside is coming apart at the seams, but right now, in this room, in this bed, you have each other—and that’s not nothing. In a kingdom like Eldoria, it’s everything.

“You’re home,” you whisper.

“For now,” she says. But there’s a smile in her voice. "Until morning."

"What's in the morning?" You question with worry.

"A shipment to the king from allies," she replied, pushing her hair back so it wouldn't smack your face. "Supposed to be goblets and silks."

All the type of things your small home was already adorned with. The wealth of a nobleman, maybe even dutchess or princess sprawled out loosely.

"Is it dangerous?" You asked softly, grip on her tightening.

"Do you want the real answer or the one that you'd like?" She replied.